


Living Arrangements

by cenotaphy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Coda, Dean Loves Pie, Dean being honest for once, Fluff, Heart-to-Heart, M/M, Only a teensy bit of angst, Post-Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:32:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8506189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cenotaphy/pseuds/cenotaphy
Summary: Coda to 12x02.





	

Dean's drumming his fingers on the map room table, mulling over the existence of the British Men of Letters—no way does he buy their olive branch act, not after what that blonde chick did to Sam—but he's too comfortably full of pie and chicken to be as pissed as he probably ought to be. After all: they're all _alive_.

"Dean?" It's Cas, ghosting around the corner and through the doorway. The angel glances at the debris on the table with slightly raised eyebrows—the crumpled napkins, the paper plates, the empty bucket of chicken that represents one more crack in the facade Dean spent thirty years maintaining of his mother.

"Cas. Where you been, buddy?" The angel had healed their injuries upon leaving Toni Bevell's base—bruises and scrapes for Dean and Mary, a far more horrifying set of injuries for Sam, but they'd taken separate cars and Cas hadn't reappeared for dinner.

Cas tilts his head, his expression soft. "I thought you would want time with your family."

"We've been over this." Dean points his half-empty beer at Cas. "You are family."

It shouldn't be possible for Cas's expression to become even fonder, but it does. Something lovely and warm unspools in the back of Dean's mind at the sight. He's always been a sucker for that, he supposes—for the subtle ebb and flow of Cas's features, the way they melt and soften when he's pleased. By the lamplight Cas's eyes are dark, but they're bright and gentle and far more eloquent than any eyes should have the right to be. Still, he's shaking his head even as he crosses the room to pull out a chair. "It's—"

"—different, sure, but doesn't make you any less a part of us." Dean's tempted to expound on the point, but he knows it's going to take more than one conversation to turn Cas around on this. He files the topic away for later. "But thanks for the thought, man. Glad you're back now."

"Of course." Cas sits on the edge of the chair, straight-backed, his hands on his knees. He looks very earnestly at Dean. "What do you need me to do?"

"What? Nothing. You already healed Sam and Mom—"

"It was the least I could do," says Cas, grave now. "Dean, I'd never have forgiven myself if any of you had come to harm, especially since it was my fault that—"

"Not your fault, Cas," Dean interrupts. "We talked about that. Shut up and have some pie." He shoves the mostly-empty box along the table towards his friend.

Cas looks down at the one remaining slice. He seems dubious.

"Yeah, I know you can't taste it. Humor me, man."

"It's not that." Cas looks up again, and now his brow is furrowed in that unique Cas-blend of curiosity and confusion. "But you love pie, Dean, don't you want it?"

"There's things I love more than pie," says Dean, and then freezes. _Shit_. _Why the fuck did I say it like_ that? He hadn't meant to make it sound like—he hadn't meant to let something like that just slip out— _shit_. "Like, uh, sharing," he covers lamely. "Uh. And I already ate the other seven slices."

He waits on tenterhooks for Cas to call him out, but the angel is already acquiescing, reaching for a spoon and pulling the pie towards him.

"How is it?"

Cas hums a little around the bite, though it sounds like a noise he's making mainly because he believes he's supposed to. "It's good. The blueberries came from a farm in Connecticut, I think. Picked in the morning, right after a mowing. Are the chemicals from the freshly-cut grass meant to complement the flavors of the pie?"

"Yeah, Cas, uh, normal people can't taste that."

"Oh." Cas swallows and goes for another bite. "It's still very good," he says unconvincingly.

He looks so human, with his rumpled clothes and the sloping line of his shoulders and his hair a little disheveled and the slight bags under his eyes. And yet—he's _not_. Why can't Dean ever remember that? Why can't he remember that the man who's his best friend isn't just a _man_ , isn't anywhere near Dean's level, is something holier and greater and more powerful than any human could ever dream of being?

"Thank you for sharing the pie, Dean," says Cas, and _that_ statement is not only convincing, but so brimming with earnestness and affection that Dean feels himself reddening, because for fuck's sake it's a damn slice of _pie_.

"Well, you gotta try apple," says Dean. "My mom's is..." He trails off. _Did she even bake pies?_ It's a paradigm-rocking thought, and he hastily shoves it away. He watches Cas lick blueberry syrup off the back of the spoon, his guileless expression making it clear that he has absolutely no idea how enticing the movement is. Or would be, if Dean were going to think those things about Cas. Which he most certainly is not.

"So," he says hastily, in lieu of taking the spoon away and seeing if Cas's lips taste like syrup—a totally unfair urge, given how Dean could have _sworn_ that after seven slices he was finally tired of blueberries. "You gonna stick around?"

Cas lowers the spoon and looks at him in surprise. "You want me to?"

"You got other plans?"                                                                

The angel fumbles. "I was...I have that truck, and I suppose I was just going to drive it somewhere and sit in it. Or sit in the back. Or on the hood. I don't need to sleep, so..."

Dean snorts. "Homes are for more than sleeping, dude."

It takes him a moment to realize that Cas has gone quite still, the spoon still hovering at mid-level. Dean blinks, wondering what he's said.

Slowly, Cas reaches the spoon down to the pie box and cuts a tiny, deliberate piece off.

"This is my home?" he says after a long moment, his voice quiet. His gaze is trained on the pie.

"Come on, Cas, we've been over this. You've crashed here plenty of times." _When he was sick_ , an inner voice points out unhelpfully. _When he was dying from Rowena's curse. When you needed him to take care of Sam_.

Cas's forehead creases slightly and Dean can tell that the angel is thinking along the same lines. Running, perhaps, through a mental list of all the scenarios during which he's stayed at the bunker.

"You...would prefer it," Cas begins haltingly, the words very clearly a question, "if I...stuck around?"

Dean raises his eyebrows. _Well, duh_ , he's about to say, but stops himself, because it hasn't always been _well, duh_ , has it? He thinks about all the times they've gone their separate ways after a case—all the times Cas has worked side by side with him and Sam, only to be left behind once it was over.

And, of course, there'd been that time when Cas was human. When he'd _needed_ them. When there had actually been a chance for Dean to actually take care of him, actually teach him all the ins and outs of humanity that didn't come in Heaven's 101 course. And maybe, if Dean hadn't fucked up so badly, he could have actually _helped_ Cas, could have taught him what _home_ was, and maybe they could've—maybe they could've—

But. Well. Look what he'd done, instead.

 _You wrecked it_ , something nasty sneers in rotted corner of his mind. _Just like you always do_.

After that, Dean supposes that he'd always thought Cas had something better to do, some other place he wanted to be. That Dean had missed the crucial window of time when Cas actually _needed_ a home. That the reason he never stayed was because he didn't want to stay, not because he didn't think he was welcome.

But there's a sharp edge of longing in Cas's voice now, and something else—hope, mixed with uncertainty. So maybe Dean's just been wrong, this whole time.

So Dean says, "Of course I want you stick around. Cas, you're _always_ welcome here. Please, understand that."

Cas blinks and fixes hesitant eyes on him. "So...I can stay?"

"Yes. We _want_ you to stay, man." _I want you to stay._ "You've got a room, haven't you?"

"I didn't realize that was...my...room."

"Do you not like it?" Dean asks, deliberately misinterpreting the question. "You can pick out a different one, we've got plenty of space—"

"No! That—that won't be necessary." Cas actually squirms a little in the seat, looking embarrassed to have interrupted, before saying in much more constrained tones, "I like it." He shovels in what is, even by Dean's standards, an unnecessarily large bite of pie.

"Good. That's that, then."

"That's...what?"

Dean lifts the beer bottle, taps out his points against its bedewed neck. "One: you live here. Okay?"

There it is again, that softening around the eyes, the imperceptible shifting that makes warmth radiate from Cas's features despite the faintness of the accompanying smile. "Okay."

"Two," Dean continues. "Two: you're _always_ welcome. Okay?"    

"Okay, Dean."

"Three: I want you to stay. Okay?" Too late, he registers the use of the pronoun, but he can't turn back now; Cas is already staring at him, his gaze searching, his spoon forgotten in the pie box, his eyes wide and impossibly full of light. _He's an angel_ , Dean reminds himself. _An angel_. But right now Cas looks like nothing more and nothing less than a person, with all of the confusion and hope and wonder that humanity entails.

It's funny—it always used to be Cas who lectured about faith, about belief. It had been Cas, in the beginning, who'd had unshakable faith, Cas who had eventually transferred some small measure of that faith, that unwavering determination, to Dean. But now Dean suddenly feels as if their positions are reversed, and he wants return the favor—wants to give Cas a reason to have faith in him, wants to lean forward, press his hand against Cas's cheek, wipe away that look of uncertainty, of doubt. Because point number three, in all its blurted-out glory, is something he _never_ wants Cas to mistrust again.

"Okay," says Cas finally, after a pause that's just long enough for Dean to _almost_ start worrying.

Dean lets out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Lastly, four," he says, and points the beer at Cas again, in mock disapproval. "Four, you're part of this family and that means you'll show up for family dinners unless you've got a damn good reason to miss them. I mean come on, what kind of establishment do you think we're running here?"

Cas's face twitches; now he looks as if he's trying to hold back a smile, and _damn_ , Dean could watch the almost-there curve of his mouth all night. Which is a dangerous thought, and one that he's feeling just relaxed enough to try to do something about, if he's not careful.

He stands up, claps his free hand onto Cas's shoulder. "Good talk. I'm gonna grab another beer, start getting ready to turn in," he announces. "Finish your pie." He realizes belatedly that he's left his hand resting on Cas's shoulder, that he is, in fact, holding on to it as he speaks, leaning a little of his weight on it.

"Alright," says Cas. "I'll see you in the morning, Dean." His voice is serious as always, but his left hand drifts up to his shoulder and brushes against Dean's: the knuckles, the fingers, the rough skin on the back of his hand. It's an easy, gentle gesture, and Dean finds himself smiling back and thinking to himself that fuck, he could really get used to this happiness thing.

He squeezes Cas's shoulder and leaves to go find a beer, and the smile, without him quite realizing it, lingers on his face for a long time.

***

Later, he's sitting on the kitchen floor and flipping through photographs of his mom, and he's thinking about her—about how miraculous she is, and how it doesn't really matter whether or not she can cook, or whether she knows how to use the internet, or what other details he's got wrong about her, because those are all just that, details. They're all just elements of the surface, and the core of it is that his mom is _back_ , she's _with_ them, and she might not have seen them in thirty years but her love is such a real and tangible thing.

And he thinks, too, with a sudden flash that allows him to put to words what he's felt for a long time, that it doesn't matter whether Cas is angel or human, whether he's fighting demons or scraping sticky crumbs off the sides of a pie box, because those, too, are details. And what Dean feels for Cas, whatever real and tangible thing he's spent too much time and effort sidestepping across the years—he'll figure out exactly what it is eventually, on its own time, and not worry about the surface elements of it all, because the important part is that Cas is _here_ and he's going to stay, and that—that's a pretty tangible good thing, right there.

**Author's Note:**

> So I was kind of bummed that Castiel wasn't around for the family dinner scene at the end of 12x02 (like come on he was barely in that episode! but he still definitely helped and it's not like he has anything else to be doing, what possible reason is there for him not being present?!?), and then I was really happy when the beginning of 12x03 showed that he'd spent the night (or possibly multiple nights, depending on how much time had passed) at the Bunker after all, haha! I wrote this as a kind of bridge piece, imagining how a related conversation might have played out.


End file.
